


Phlox, Camellia

by Snowy_Rain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Voldemort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gratuitously hot Tom Riddle, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, It's a christmas miracle!!, M/M, Off-screen, Prophecy, Regulus Lives, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Soulmates, This has updated!!!, Voldemort The Crazy Cat Lady, but like, do not copy to another site, i don't know what i'm doing and at this point i'm too afraid to ask
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowy_Rain/pseuds/Snowy_Rain
Summary: The prophecy is avoided. Another one arises. This time itsticks.Harry Potter grows up without the fame of his name, yet still orphaned. He might as well have been invisible to the whole world.And one fateful night, instead of the Chosen One — John Michaelis —Harryis kidnapped and brought to the Dark Lord.This cannot end well.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Original Male Character(s), Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter
Comments: 85
Kudos: 461
Collections: Chamber of Secrets' Winter Exchange (2019)





	1. Phlox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katlover/gifts).



> Sorry this was late! Merry Christmas everyone! (I’m bombarded by exams lol, but this thing will be done) (bloody Turkish people know nothing of Christmas) (so no holiday :( )
> 
> This was also inspired by a prompt from Miklos!

The story is different.

Severus Snape is much more subtler, more cautious -- he disguises himself, pours all sorts of illusion charms on his person. This lets him hear the whole prophecy.

The Dark Lord is not a madman controlled by his basic instincts. He ponders on the wording, the intonation, and the candidates. He is careful and a perfect perfectionist, so when the opportunity arises to kill the Potters he takes the plunge -- but does not raise his wand on the child. He leaves him there, staring stupefied at the still body of its mother.

_(But he did not realize he left a piece of himself there.)_

Dumbledore is beside himself with guilt. He does his best to protect Harry, sending him to live with his Muggle relatives -- _who are relatively safe, who have no way of betraying Harry to the Dark Lord --_ and prepares for war.

Sirius Black is imprisoned. Peter Pettigrew escapes. Remus Lupin has left the country long before Harry is orphaned.

The Longbottoms are dealt with by Voldemort himself. The child lives, like its counterpart.

_(Alice never evoked a magical vow. Neville was never connected to the Dark Lord -- not the way Harry was. Neville escaped his fate.)_

On November’s chilly days, a new prophecy threatens the Dark Lord’s empire. The seer is not Trelawney, merely someone named _‘Sarah’_ who was in the middle of her apprenticeship.

_“His fateful end has been tampered with,_

_May the Dark Lord be defeated on the Winter Solstice!_

_When the sun hits its darkest hour, he shall prick himself on a spindle and sleep forevermore!_

_The Dark Lord shall not survive the cold, and his body will freeze black,_

_It will be by the existence of a child named John, not of wizard descent.”_

It is reported to him almost immediately. He is outraged by the implications, the mockery. Fate is playing with him, tormenting him with his humble origins and the disgraceful demise planned for him.

He acts without wasting precious time. He scours the Muggleborn Registry with burning fire in his soul. Something stands out to him, however, and he pauses.

_‘John Michaelis, Wool’s Orphanage, 21th June 1980.’_

He considers it. He tastes the name in his mouth, mulls over it like a glass of poisoned wine.

He decides. The Dark Lord dons a cloak and heads to Wool’s on December twenty-first.

The building itself is tasteless -- as it had always been. Voldemort goes in and is promptly attended to by a woman.

“Hello, sir,” she simpers. He deems her useless, her mind full of hope and gross attraction and fantasies. “Have you come to adopt?”

“...Yes.”

“Well, it’s a bit early but I suppose we can wake some of the older kids up--”

“I know who I want to see,” he interrupts her. Her eyes rise up to her hairline. “His name is John Michaelis. I was informed he lives here?”

“Of - Of course, let me lead you to his room, sir--”

She is mildly suspicious, yet not so suspicious she would deny him entry. It is revolting how humans would look the other way for a pretty face.

The door to the room where _it_ will happen. The room where _Voldemort_ will _rule supreme._

She opens the door. It’s a nursery, colored in calm, light blue colors and scattered toys on the floor. He sneers at the sight and strides forward to the crib, straight to the core of the matter.

“John Michaelis,” he says, considering the baby. It’s as boring as any other baby. “You were never meant to live.”

He takes out his wand with a flourish, aims it to the heart--

\--but he doesn’t realize the threat coming from behind.

His breath leaves him suddenly, he staggers to the side — to the floor. He is shocked, _uncomprehending._ What had _happened?_

His head lolls to the side and his eyes meet the woman’s, gazed upon her tearful and panicked face. In her hand is a long and silvery needle, painted with blood. His nape burns with the puncture wound.

“Oh God,” she swears, unable to avert her eyes from his. “Oh _God._ He was going to kill little Johnny.”

She stays there, unresponsive. Then she acts.

Voldemort is furious, he is _murderous._ She handles him like a sack and carries him to the backyard. She comes back with a shovel and buries him amid the snow.

_You will pay for this,_ he screams inside. _I won’t let my hard work fall apart!_

The Dark Lord’s end comes by the existence of a child named John, Muggleborn and loved by his caretakers. John is found, celebrated and praised — but he is not disturbed. The Wizarding World leaves him to his privacy and revels in the victory.

_(But they don’t know of the soul pieces.)_

**_(1th Year)_ **

  
  


Harry is absolutely _insane._

He is also completely _elated._

The professor takes him to Diagon Alley. He can’t believe the sights, the lights, the smells and the _sparks_ running through his arms -- he can’t stop the energy inside him, can’t help but let the flowing light leak from his pores. He _vibrates_ with joy.

The professor winces by his side and addresses him.

“You should try to keep your magic contained, Mr. Potter,” Quirrel says with a grimace. Harry flushes for some reason he doesn’t know. The expression on the professor’s face, however -- it makes him terribly self-conscious.

It doesn’t make sense. Is something wrong with him, to make such a face? Does Harry’s magic _stink?_ He doesn’t think so. In fact, he thinks he can almost smell the scent of _rain_ around. 

_How does one feel magic anyway,_ Harry wonders, but forgets about it soon after. His awe at the Alley overcomes his curiosity.

Soon after, he learns of a vault full of gold, buys his very own wand, shops for his school supplies and receives a snow-white friend.

***

His uncle nearly explodes from his anger. Harry is mad at him as well -- but he holds his temper tight. He doesn’t want them to take the bedroom back.

...He also doesn’t want them to know that he doesn’t know any spells yet.

***

The train to Hogwarts is pretty crowded.

Harry lies his head on the windowsill, cushioning his chin with his arms, and watches the meadows pass by.

The compartment door is knocked on, then it slides open. Harry turns to look: it’s a boy, similar to him in stature. His head is a mess of black locks just like Harry’s. His face, however, couldn’t be more different.

“Hey,” he greeted. Harry nodded in acknowledgement. “Can I sit here? If it’s a bother I’ll leave.”

_Proper grammar means you must use ‘may’ rather than ‘can’,_ Aunt Petunia’s shrill correction echoes in his mind. Harry doesn’t listen to it. “Sure.”

The boy sits across from him. Harry thinks he’s… _really_ easy-going. _He_ wouldn’t have been able to do that with such ease. How is he so calm, sharing space with a stranger?

“I’m John Michaelis,” the boy introduces himself, outstretching a slack hand. Harry hesitates, then shakes it with his palm sweating.

“I’m Harry,” he says. “Potter.”

They don’t talk anymore. The rest of the train ride is filled with Harry’s snores and John’s yawning.

***

_ Hello,  _ the Hat hums as Harry’s vision goes dark.  _ What do we have here? _

_ ‘Is that you, Mr. Hat?’ _

It laughs in his head. The mirth echoes in his mind.  _ Yes, Mr. Potter. Now… _

It makes a surprised sound.

_ You can be great in Slytherin. _

_ ‘Will I make friends there?’ _

_ That depends on you. _

Harry considers Malfoy who had pushed a boy into the lake, then he considers John who he met on the train. John was nice. Harry had a feeling the brightly-coloured House had lots of friendly people.

_ I see,  _ the Hat sighs. It sounds forlorn.  _ Best of luck to you, Harry. _

He is sorted to Gryffindor.

***

“Let’s try again, Potter,” Snape says. “Where can you find a bezoar?”

Harry tries to remember --  _ remembering _ is hard without ever having acquired the knowledge. Professor Snape deducts points and the class ends with him feeling horrible.

(That night, he studies obsessively for Potions.)

***

John Michealis is called  _ Boy-Who-Lived  _ at the school.

Harry doesn’t know what that means, but he has learned that no one will tell him if he doesn’t learn it by himself. The result is multiple visits to the library and rushing to the dorms close to curfew. 

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated by John. Harry doesn’t know how -- no one does. Rumors and general opinion is that the boy  _ reflected the Killing Curse back to the Dark Lord.  _ Harry doesn’t quite believe it but he has seen a lot of weird things since he became a wizard. This could be another oddity added to his already odd life.

John doesn’t mind that Harry didn’t know who he was. He is  _ satisfied  _ by that, even. Harry can’t fathom why he would be -- then he remembers the constant staring and the hushed whispers.

He understands afterwards. They become tentative acquaintances. 

***

Headmaster Dumbledore  _ calls him up to his office. _

Harry is terrified. What has he done wrong?

It’s not as bad as he expects it to be, however.

Professor Dumbledore is an easy-going, warm person. He smiles as easily as he cries.

“This was your father’s,” he croaks out, dews on his white beard. “I had borrowed it from him before his passing. It belongs to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry stutters as he accepts the cloak. It’s lighter than he expects -- the fabric looks heavy with the way it hangs down the man’s arms, but it’s actually something like air weaved into magic. The texture is silky smooth. The colour is something he can’t quite describe, is it black? Is it grey? It seems to shift in its iridescence.

“A cloak of invisibility,” Dumbledore informs him. “Use it well and it will serve you with loyalty.”

Harry is bemused, but he nods. He leaves the office and goes out after curfew to take a walk outside, that night.

***

_ “No,”  _ Harry refuses to stand aside. John, Weasley, and Granger demand he get out of the way or  _ else, because the Stone is in danger! _

_ I don’t care for the Stone,  _ Harry pleads.  _ I just want you all to be safe! Leave it to Dumbledore! _

He is immobilized with a  _ Petrificus Totalus.  _ He cries, eyes still wide open and shouting inside for them to be careful as they step over his fallen form.

He waits there until it’s morning and his tears have dried. A prefect finds him and  _ finites  _ the spell. 

***

They are safe, all three of them.  _ Thank Merlin.  _ Harry feels disappointed they went and ignored him though.

The remaining days of school go well. Harry earns above-average marks and leaves the castle with a less morose face.

“What’s wrong?” John asks him when they end up in the same compartment. Granger and Weasley don’t mind him much, yet they don’t really like him either. Harry is only here for John. “You don’t look happy.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubs his arms. “I stay with my relatives. We don’t like each other.”

“That sucks,” John comments, then leans back into the cushion. “I stay with Martha. She was an employee at the orphanage before she adopted me.”

The three chatter without aim and Harry broods about his inevitable summer.

**_(2nd Year)_ **

  
  


Summer couldn’t be  _ better. _

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley are so  _ petrified  _ by the notion of magic that they don’t even talk to him anymore. Harry is free to spend the rest of his holidays with peace and quiet, never again going to bed crying through his anger. It’s his  _ best summer ever. _

When the time comes to buy his school supplies, Harry is brought to London without any complaints.  _ (Audible  _ complaints, that is.)

***

This year, he befriends a first-year named  _ Luna Lovegood. _

Her peers call her  _ Loony. _

Harry is intrigued.

“Hi,” she greets first, eyes wandering above his head. “You have amassed quite the collection of Whelvers.”

“Um--” Harry is confused.  _ Very  _ confused. “Okay?”

She smiles, unashamed and innocent. 

“I wanted to be your friend,” Harry blurts out, unable to hold on to the image of dignity in front of her. There is something about her that makes him  _ not  _ mind that he is embarrassing himself. “Can I?”

“Of course. I’m Luna, and you?”

“I’m Harry.”

***

Ginny Weasley sits with him at lunch hours. It becomes a strange habit of hers -- Harry doesn’t know what to think of it. He doesn’t have any opinions at the start.

She begins the talks with a shy smile and asks for conversations. Another bewildering situation. Harry is utterly  _ boring.  _ He knows this. He knows it better than others. Ginny couldn’t  _ actually  _ want to be his friend.

But he bears with it. Once he gets used to Ginny’s energy, it’s easier to hold off the discomfort. 

(When she leaves, it gets harder and harder to ignore it.)

***

It is Halloween. 

To say that Harry is feeling mixed would be an understatement. He knows from the previous year’s incident that today is John’s birthday. On the other hand, it’s the death anniversary of his parents. He doesn’t quite know if he should attend the feast or not.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna greets him. “Are you heading to the Great Hall?”

He shrugs. It’s as indifferent as he can get -- Harry hasn’t thought of an excuse not to attend, so he would try to keep his options open for if push comes to shove; he has to keep from contradicting himself.

“I see,” she says, nodding wisely as if his gestures made any sense at all. “Want to take a stroll, then?”

“Aren’t you gonna attend the feast?”

Luna waves her hand as she changes directions, taking him by the arm. “I’ll pass. Wouldn’t you? It’s not particularly interesting.”

It’s her first Halloween at Hogwarts, so Harry doesn’t believe her that much. However, why would she miss the celebrations to spend time with him? It doesn’t make a lick of sense.

But they end up walking through dark, winding corridors. These are ones he has never seen before. Harry decides he’s going to pay Luna back for this adventure.

At the end of the path, they find themselves in a completely different corridor -- dark marble floors, so polished and black it looks as though they are walking across a lake. Portraits get fewer and fewer the more they advance and Harry swears some of their canvases are empty. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this, but if Luna isn’t nervous he has no reason to chicken out. He trusts her. He has found she doesn’t take unnecessary risks.

The corridor leads to a door. A towering gate with sharp arches, golden embroidery on its wood.

“Are we there?” Harry whispers. Luna doesn’t answer. Instead, she walks forward and twists the knob without hesitation.

Well, that answers his question too.

They go in, Harry with more wariness than Luna, and stop short at the sight.

A portrait sits before them. It’s inordinately colossal, nearly taking most of the wall. Harry can see that the canvas is much more different than Hogwarts’ portraits, ornate and flattering where they were standard and brown.

The figure on the art piece is an imposing man, bigger than normal human proportions -- reasonable, considering the size of the portrait itself -- and wearing traditional wizard robes.

His  _ face-- _

_ “Luna,”  _ he says, panicked. “We shouldn’t be here!”

“Whatever do you mean, Harry? Come on, let’s say hello.”

“If you hadn’t noticed--” Harry, furious with her for treating this so lightly, tries to pull her back to the dark corridor. He should have noticed there was something shifty about this! “-- _ that  _ is the  _ Dark Lord!” _

Luna doesn’t panic. Her face is serene, like a steady downpour washing down the streets. Harry can’t believe her calmness, not with how the worry and fear runs through his veins.

She doesn’t mind his begging, and calls to the portrait, “Good evening, sir!”

Harry holds his breath as Voldemort lets his gaze fall upon them, eyes disdainful even through paint and parchment.

But he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t curse them to death. He doesn’t move much, really -- Harry isn’t sure if he is more relieved or disappointed.

“Come on,” Harry tells her. “We have to go.”

“Do you have a spare hat?” Luna asks him. 

“No. Why?”

“Well--” She strides towards the tall, intimidating portrait until she’s right up its canvas. Harry can see the distaste curling on the Dark Lord’s face, as if it were a physical, slimy thing that has landed on his nose.

He still doesn’t talk, however. Luna smiles winningly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Luna speaks. “But I think it’s against protocol to attend the Halloween Feast without a hat. I asked Harry but he doesn’t have his with him -- would you like mine?”

_ “Luna,”  _ Harry hisses at her but is shushed. “What are you  _ doing?” _

“It’s not dangerous, Harry.” She turns to give him a reassuring smile, then stares back up at the man’s face again. “I promise.”

Luna is absolutely  _ mental,  _ but that’s okay because they aren’t dead yet. Hopefully the spirit of the murderer of his parents’ won’t return to haunt him day and night.

His friend keeps trying to coax the painting into conversation to no avail, the man staying as silent and judging as he had been when they walked up to him. Harry decides that no, it can’t be the Dark Lord himself -- no matter how lifelike the style is. With that he sighs and lets Luna have her fun. She deserves some entertainment after having accompanied Harry on this hellish day.

After a while, even Luna gets fed-up. They agree to meet some other day to get the Dark Lord to speak and leave the room for their respective dorms.

***

John corners him some days later.

“Ginny told me that you keep avoiding her, Harry,” he tells him. The way he isn’t ashamed to talk to him right in the corridor, the way he stares into his eyes -- his whole demeanour feels incredibly invasive to Harry, even though he knows John isn’t bad. John is a nice person. John actually acts kind even when he isn’t expected to be. 

“I don’t,” Harry hurries to correct him. “It’s just that she looks  _ very  _ happy to talk to me and… I’m not really used to that. I don’t get why.”

John shrugs. “I think she heard Ron talking about you -- I stayed with the Weasleys last summer -- and probably decided to prove him wrong.”

“Wrong?” Harry clings to the word with worry. “Why?”

“I…” He bites his lips a lot, Harry had noticed before. “I don’t know if I should say. It was kind of mean.”

_ Oh.  _ Harry holds back the sting of hurt, even though he should have expected it. Weasley never really liked him to begin with, despite his and John’s occasional conversations. So he nods meekly  _ (He hates that he’s so weak)  _ and averts his eyes to the floor, where their feet face each other.

_ “Harry,”  _ John says. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s okay. Weas --  _ um  _ \-- Ron doesn’t like me a lot.”

John nods, trailing off. Shuffling his feet, he tries to catch Harry’s eye futilely. 

“So.” He doesn’t look like he has anymore reason to stay. Not like he does with the Weasley twins or Granger or even some of the Ravenclaws. “I guess what I mean to say is that… that you should talk it out with Ginny. She’s got the wrong idea.”

Well, the  _ wrong  _ idea had a different meaning to each person. Harry’s  _ wrong idea  _ meant  _ Ginny is mistaken and she’s looking for a person that doesn’t exist, behind Harry’s flitting gaze.  _

It would be good if she stopped early on. 

***

“Are you alright, Harry?” Luna asks him while on the way to Care of Magical Creatures. “You are practically  _ swarmed  _ by Spawling Sandapiles.”

He doesn’t know what those are, but it’s obvious it amounts to something bad and worrying in Luna’s book. He shakes his head, unable to tell her what he himself has a vague idea on.

“Hey!”

Harry turns around, only to flinch when he spots Ginny Weasley running full-speed at them.

“Harry,” she greets with a wide, worshipful smile. “Glad I caught you! I was going to Ancient Runes, but I wanted to talk to you before class. Could we?”

Ginny is… She is the kind of person you don’t really want to talk with -- because she’s so  _ nice,  _ so nice it feels kind of forced and overpowered -- but you don’t want to make her sad either -- because she’s so  _ nice,  _ so nice it makes it hard to say no to her and watch that smile fall.

“Sure,” he says, and follows her to the side. Luna gives him a pat on the back as he leaves.

“What do you wanna talk about?” he asks Ginny once they are alone. Mostly alone. Luna is waiting at the sidelines, keeping her nose out of their business but still waiting for Harry. He likes that about her.

“I just wanted to talk really,” Ginny responds enthusiastically, a bit on the shy side. She keeps trying to see Harry’s eyes, to lead them back on her face and not the marble floor. “How have you been? You’ve been silent these days.”

This makes him uncomfortable too, the way she keeps handing him the leashes of their conversations. He doesn’t want to start talks, doesn’t know where to start because he doesn’t know what the other person would want to talk about. He had found that it was easier asking them a question and letting them take the ball and run with it.

So he shrugs. Ginny looks mildly put out, but not enough to leave him alone. She begins chattering about nothing serious at all -- even though he was on the verge of being late to class.

“And you know how he is, kind of stupid and all--”

“Ginny,” he stops her at last. “I  _ really  _ need to get to class.”

“Oh.” She pauses and blushes. The red makes her cheeks blotchy just like her brother’s. “Sorry about that! Have a great lesson!”

Harry thinks about it. He really does. Does he  _ really  _ want to be her friend? When every day he lives could be filled with these kinds of moments?

The answer comes quickly, bludgeoning.  _ He doesn’t. _

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he blurts out. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What do you mean, Harry?”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” he tells her honestly. “You aren’t a bad person, it’s just that I… that I don’t like being with you.”

She doesn’t reply to him for a long moment, then her face flares like a firecracker. Harry isn’t surprised when she turns around and storms off, but he feels something close to loss.

“Harry,” Luna calls. “Coming?”

“Yeah.”

***

It’s Christmas. Harry stays at Hogwarts once again -- happier than he would have been at the Dursleys’. Luna hasn’t stayed --  _ “Daddy says he found a Dryad back at the woods! I want to visit them.”  _ \-- but he feels comfortable in the empty castle.

John has gone too. Harry remembers that he might have gone with the Weasleys, who have all but adopted him into their family. It makes him feel something like  _ wistfulness,  _ but why would he be wistful for that anyway? He reckons the Weasleys are rather overbearing.

He walks the corridors with a sensation of invincibility. No one can stop him and demand he return to his dorm room here -- not with his special cloak. 

***

John becomes an honorary Hufflepuff -- it’s  _ officially  _ approved. Professor Sprout blushes and grins at dinner as the teachers gossip. Harry scrunches up his nose at the recent happenings. What’s the  _ point  _ of it all? It looks like an empty title to him.

“Professor Dumbledore once told me that titles have more power than we think,” John tells him when he asks him about it. “He said some other things accompanying it, but I think this was what he wanted to say.”

“Why would Dumbledore say something like that?”

John shrugs. He doesn’t know either. Harry makes a weird face and goes back to his own business.

***

Second year ends with the house cup going for Hufflepuff. John claps for them, as does every house. It is the first year Hufflepuff gets the House Cup -- according to other accounts.

The train ride back to the Dursleys is less of a world-shattering truth and more of an unfortunate side-effect. John gives him a wave as they part on the station. (Harry is happy he is seen by _someone.)_

Vernon’s colouring is plum-purple. Harry delights in his annoyance. 

  
  


**_(3rd Year)_ **

  


The summer is nothing unusual. Harry grows up a few inches taller, though. His hair becomes a mop instead of what it actually ought to be, but such is life for him. He is thirteen now and it feels weird. Is he a big boy or is he still a child?

He collects his summer supplies as is becoming the norm and arrives at King's Cross with elation.

He whispers  _ boo  _ to Dudley before leaving -- it’s hilarious, his cousin jumps up high enough to hit the ceiling. Harry might do it more often next year.

***

Luna greets him on the train. She was taller than him last year -- this time they are nearly equal in height. Harry celebrates with chocolate frogs and shares with his friend.

This year the Defense professor is a haggard-looking old man. He has greying, sandy hair and the beginnings of wrinkles on his face. Harry thinks the guy needs more sleep than he needs money.

His lessons are  _ brilliant,  _ however. Harry wouldn’t ever exchange Lupin for Quirrel or the Ministry substitute. He shows them Boggarts, Kappas and so many more _ fascinating _ creatures.

***

“James was one of my closest friends,” Professor Lupin says as he drinks his frothing potion. He gulps it down and makes a face at the taste. “We were the same year in Hogwarts.”

“Are you something like my uncle then?”

Lupin laughs good-naturedly. “I suppose I am. I feel… responsible. Seeing you like this — in the flesh — is surreal.”

Harry suddenly doesn’t feel so good about this.

Professor Lupin was a friend of his parents. Supposedly, he was also very close to the both of them — his mother more than his father. And yet, Harry has never seen this man before in his life.

“Where were you, then?” he asks, unable to keep silent. “I was with the Dursleys. They’re the worst sort of people, you know? Couldn’t you at least visit and… I don’t know. Couldn’t you have checked to see if I was doing well?”

“Check?” the professor repeats, looking rattled. Harry’s attention is caught by the man’s silver sideburns.  _ He isn’t that old — he just seems it.  _ “I - I don’t know. At the time I was… I can’t lie to you, Harry. I was  _ running.  _ Running from my life, from my family, from even  _ myself.  _ I didn’t let myself think of you or the Potters or anything related to magic at all.”

“You—“ Harry’s mind has blanked, a tune of stable radio silence. “You  _ ran?” _

Lupin’s expression is enough to answer the question. Harry lowers his head and stares at his feet. For a moment, he’s reminded of last year and his attempts at socializing. It feels terrible, just like it had been then.

Lupin left him. Granted, he left him because he was afraid; Harry can understand that. Fear is natural.

“Thank you for the talk, sir,” Harry mutters as he finishes his tea.

“It was my pleasure, Harry. My door is open whenever you need counsel.”

***

“Hey, John!” a voice yells behind him. Harry glances momentarily, there’s no John around, then goes back to reading.

“John.” A hand clamps down on his shoulder and Harry has the  _ single most terrifying scare of his life.  _ The grip turns him around and— “Oh. You aren’t John.”

“...Well,” he says.  _ “Obviously.” _

Are they  _ idiots?  _ John and he might have similar builds and similar hair, but they aren’t  _ identical.  _ You’d have to be a stranger to not recognize John Michaelis when his back is turned.

They go. The incident is buried underneath thoughts of homework assignments.

***

Harry sees John leaving Defense later than is reasonable. He sees him sneaking into the dorms after curfew once, and his impatience strikes.

“Where are you going all the time?”

“Oh. Hi, Harry,” John greeted, shrugging off his black cloak. He throws himself over a couch before the hearth and shivers. “Merlin, it’s cold outside. Ah -- Professor Lupin’s been giving me lessons.”

_ “Lessons?”  _ Harry echoes, somehow baffled. “Why?”

John shrugs. “He said I’m pretty ahead of everyone else.”

_ I’m pretty ahead too, yet you don’t see me getting extra lessons. _

Harry shakes his head to dissipate the thoughts -- it’s not fair to blame his friend. John has never sought to gloat his privileges. If anything, Harry should be annoyed at  _ Lupin  _ for singling out a student.

He doesn’t say anything mean to John. They say their goodbyes and go to sleep.

*** 

The year isn’t particularly interesting. Gryffindor wins the House Cup. Harry cheers just like everyone else, except his smile is more muted. It’s not because he doesn’t want to join the manic celebration. In fact, it’s the opposite: The truth is, he can’t.

Gryffindor hasn’t accepted him. Not exactly. Harry hasn’t made any friends besides John in his House, and those who tried quickly realized he was as interesting as an ice cube. (Which means none at all.)

Which leaves him in his current predicament. Harry is viewed as the loner. This puts him into quite the tight spot -- because if he tries to assert himself into the social circle now, no one would welcome him with open arms. They would stare at him with surprise and discomfort and awkwardness.

(Which is somehow more disappointing than being ignored by everyone.)

**_(4th Year)_ **

  
  


This summer isn’t so nice. The neighbors whisper behind his back and Dudley tries to one-up him at every opportunity. Harry wouldn’t usually mind it, it’s shockingly easy to let his cousin indulge in his delusions, but this time his aunt and uncle are also taking charge. 

Petunia is especially cruel -- as cruel as she can be while merely stretching the definition of basic etiquette. Vernon handles him just a bit roughly, yet not so roughly that it would require heavy threats of magic and curses. So Harry is left without a weapon to defend himself with.

But the implication terrifies him. The Dursleys aren’t sadists by nature; however, that does  _ not  _ mean they  _ aren’t capable of it.  _ And the chance washes over him like a cold wave.

He spends most of his time awaiting the day he’s thrown back into his cupboard, maybe even beaten up. He doesn’t quite know if Vernon would do it -- he doubts it, but fear is a powerful source. It fuels paranoia.

He awaits September in perturbation.

***

“How was your holiday?” Luna asks him when he boards the train.

He shakes his head. “Don’t even ask.”

She nods and doesn’t continue, going back to her magazine. Harry wonders once again if Luna considers him her best friend too.

She already has his loyalty.

***

“I am sorry to announce that the Quidditch matches will be cancelled this year,” Dumbledore’s voice booms throughout the hall. Harry knows instantly which ones moan in distress -- Oliver Wood the loudest of them all.

“However,” he persists. “I am proud to say Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament instead of our beloved sport!”

Roars of cheer arise from the students, burying the Quidditch fans underneath their sheer volume. Harry grins at the thwarted frown Wood wears, pouting for all its worth.

“A tournament,” John mutters to himself nearby. “Sounds boring.”

“You can’t be thinking that, Michaelis!”

“Surely not?”

“Whatever,” John waves away the protests. “I bet watching would be more fun. Is there someone in Gryffindor who wants to join?”

They lose themselves to the conversation and excitement. Harry sighs contentedly at the sight of their happy faces, eating his treacle tart with gusto.

***

Near Halloween, Harry and Luna visit the Dark Lord’s portrait again.

Harry remembers that countenance, the pallid skin and the narrowed, red eyes. His hair has a curve to it on the fringe, it makes it fall on his eyes. Harry thinks it suits him in a strange way, the Dark Lord’s gaunt and handsome face.

When they find the portrait, Luna tries her hardest to open conversation. At some point, to the man’s visible distaste, they try ice-breakers -- found from one Muggle book and one wizard-y one.

_ “‘What is the strangest tradition in your family,’”  _ Harry reads from the passage. “Are we  _ absolutely  _ sure we want to ask that?”

“We could always use pick-up lines,” Luna offers but he  _ nopes  _ out of that as swiftly as he can. Flirting with the Dark Lord -- even if it’s a harmless portrait -- can never be a good endeavour.

They both sit there in silence for a few minutes. Luna glances at the portrait who is sighing in defeat.

_ “‘Are you a Nimbus 2000? Because you sweep me off my feet--’” _

“Luna!”

“What? I had to try.”

Needless to say, it doesn’t amount to anything. They only manage to rile the wizard up, yet they agree to reconvene after some time to try again.

***

The first task involves dragons -- Harry can see that the previously boisterous Gryffindors have fallen to silence. He is on the edge of his seat, anxious to see the champions survive the mothers guarding their eggs.

Cedric Diggory completes his task through immense luck and on-the-spot creativity, as well as the use of advanced transfiguration. Fleur Delacour finishes hers through extremely fragile sleeping charms. Viktor Krum  _ outflies his freaking dragon.  _ Harry can’t stop his applause, just like the rest of the audience.

***

A ball. A  _ Yule Ball. _

Harry can’t stop  _ shaking.  _

There are expectations. Everyone has become a treacherous hyena, awaiting a sign of weakness before lunging. Harry has the overwhelming peer pressure of having to find a date.

But that doesn’t explain his sudden ambition.

He is going to ask  _ John. _

John  _ Michaelis.  _ The  _ Boy-Who-Lived.  _ He’s pretty sure he will be lynched as soon as the boy leaves the corridor afterwards. 

He is going to ask  _ John  _ to attend the Yule Ball with him.

Joy.  _ Nothing  _ can ever go wrong with this. 

(That’s sarcasm.  _ Everything  _ might go wrong.)

***

“To the  _ Yule Ball?”  _ John repeats, jaw hanging a bit.

Harry scratches his nape, flushing to the roots of his hair. “Yeah. Is that so weird?”

“Oh -- no. You got the wrong idea, Harry. I don’t mind, but I already promised Ginny that I’d go with her.”

“I see,” he says, rubbing his arm up and down. “Okay then. See you later?”

John smiles at him. “See you later.”

***

_ Fuck. _

Harry’s heart is beating out of his chest, trembling with each pulse that sends blood through his veins.

He hadn’t meant to act so collected. He isn’t. He’s disappointed. He has been working himself up, trying to gather the courage to offer such a  _ perturbing  _ invitation. To  _ John,  _ one of his friends, nonetheless.

He’s sad. Deep in his heart, something twinges. He pushes it down. It’s not like Harry can ever date someone like him.

John is… John is  _ popular.  _ He is skilled and good-looking and rather unlike Harry himself. Moreover, John isn’t  _ invisible. _

Harry has never hated his special cloak as much as he does right now. What good does invisibility do?

***

The second task is boring. John cheers for Diggory and nothing of much importance happens. There is an issue with a contender failing the task, but all is well at the end.

The third task happens near the end of the year.

It’s a maze. The hedges are vicious, prickly things. Harry hears there are unimaginable monsters in there, and can’t stop a shiver from overtaking him.

Cedric ends up immobilized by a plant. Krum finds the Cup first. Fleur reaches him just after he does.

Durmstrang takes the Triwizard Cup and celebrates. Harry half-heartedly claps for them — then stops when he sees the warning gazes of his housemates.

That year, he leaves the castle with an ache in his heart and fear slithering down his spine.

**_(5th Year)_ **

  
  


Summer is hellish.

The Dursleys are rebelling. Dudley corners him and runs away, finally adept at guerilla tactics. Petunia takes every chance to keep him away from the house and the kitchen — sometimes even sending him away to long walks and grocery errands. He has never felt so  _ hungry  _ before.

When he’s back, all he gets for dinner is a meager amount of plain cereal or oatmeal. He has learnt to despise the dryness on his tongue and the cardboard taste of packaged breakfast foods. Harry is absolutely sure that he can never  _ not  _ spit out if he eats them, later on.

Vernon gets closer and closer to actually acting.

_ Harry has never felt so  _ **_helpless._ **

As a child, it’s easy to ignore danger. It’s easier to look the other way.

_ It’s not so easy now. _

So he acts.

“Aunt Petunia,” he addresses when he’s back from one of many errands. “This has to stop.”

She glances at him with alarm, panicked. She knows exactly what he’s talking about. “Stop  _ what,  _ boy?”

“Oh, where to begin? Perhaps we can start with  _ not starving me?” _

It makes her flinch and not much else. She’s silent. Harry scowls.

“Do you know what will happen if I use magic outside school?” he asks her. He knows he’s taking a risk, but it’s a calculated risk. “I might get expelled. Don’t smile now — because that’s no big deal for me.”

_ Lie.  _ Harry  _ loves  _ magic.

He smiles at her. It’s not a kind smile. “I  _ hate  _ you. I’m sure you know you haven’t done anything to reverse that. I  _ hate  _ you, and my hatred is enough to lose my magic over. I think you know what that means.”

Petunia stares at him with eyes wide. Good. Harry feels relieved inside, but he doesn’t give it away. “So do as I say.  _ Stop it.  _ I’ll be here for another two years and then I’ll be  _ gone.” _

_ “Forever?” _

“Forever,” he confirms.

She pauses, indecisive, but makes her decision when she waves her hand and opens the kitchen door.

“Eat,” she simply says. “But don’t expect me to cook for you.”

***

That night, Vernon looks mad enough to blow over. He doesn’t, thankfully — but the truth stands. Petunia must have told him. Harry feels powerful knowing there’s nothing his uncle can do. Not without repercussions from his family and his own conscience.

(By his  _ conscience,  _ Harry means that Vernon cares too much for his family to break the rule.)

September can use some speeding up. Harry is  _ itching  _ to leave.

***

When he boards the train, it’s with scrambling and hurrying to find a compartment; because he has to  _ release  _ his anguish, his utter  _ relief. _

He is alive to see Hogwarts once more. It shouldn’t feel as gratifying as it does, but it  _ does.  _ He has survived.

Luna accompanies him to the cubicle and pats his back as he sobs and swears.

***

That year, Defense gets another professor.

Umbridge is the  _ shittiest  _ teacher he has ever met. All she does is make the students practice theory and memorize inconsequential facts — everything about it bores Harry to death. In fact, this might be the sole year in which he isn’t in Defense’s top ten.

His education shouldn’t suffer because of a  _ humanoid toad in pink cardigan. _

Luckily, the Weasley twins have the solution: A box of skiving tools, designed to fool even the harshest instructors. It’s a huge hit amongst all grades and the brothers reach celebrity status in no time at all.

Harry allows himself some allowance every year. This time, he decides to spend all of it on these miraculous boxes. They are the light at the end of the tunnel, the missing ingredient in his master plan of self-study.

He hears that John has created a Defense study group, named  _ Dumbledore’s Army  _ by majority vote. It’s a bit disheartening to see his own idea thrown back in his face in that way, but it doesn’t really matter. Does it?

Harry does whatever he wants, he realizes. John doesn’t have any control over what he should and should not do.

He nods to himself, proud to be a bit more independent and self-sufficient.

***

The official story is that their lovely Defense professor forms an  _ inquisitorial squad. _

The real story is that Umbridge forms a group of bullies for her own amusement and use. It’s composed of Slytherins who are notorious for their ruthlessness. Mostly. There are some Ravenclaws too.

The first-years are scared. Harry sees them being harassed often enough to know that it’s not because they don’t fight back — it’s because the consequences of doing so affects only  _ them. _

Umbridge is  _ merciless.  _ She gives unjust punishments and never listens to the rules, lives by a code of conduct only she understands and  _ changes it as she sees fit.  _ It’s infuriating even to the most mild-mannered person. 

And one day Harry realizes she doesn’t do this because of the way her life has shaped her.

She does it because she  _ likes it. _

She  _ likes _ being horrible. She  _ likes _ knowing others’ pain and anger. She likes  _ causing  _ that suffering.

It’s horrifying. It’s  _ disgusting.  _ Harry has never felt so revolted by another human being. Not even the Dark Lord could hold a candle to the  _ evil deeds  _ Umbridge has been committing.

***

The Inquisitorial Squad approaches him.

Malfoy’s smirk is as slimy as it had always seemed from afar. Harry loathes him at first glance.

“We have seen that you don’t belong in Gryffindor, Potter,” he tells him. “Why not join us? You have nothing to lose — literally  _ nothing.” _

His cronies guffaw behind him. For someone who insults so childishly, Malfoy sure does have a high self esteem.

The guy continues talking.

“You have no standing, you have no benefits, you have no friends… Oh, dear me. I forgot about  _ John,  _ haven’t I?”

Harry tenses. Malfoy sounds as though he is a piranha and has caught prey.

“Potter and Michaelis,” he says as he sneers. His smirk is malicious. Harry wants to run away and never look back. “I heard that you fancy him, Potter! Is it true?”

“I heard he invited him to the Yule Ball last year,” Parkinson adds from the back, grinning.

Malfoy’s lips curl mockingly. “Really? How interesting. Tell me Potter: Did he reject you? Everyone knows he took the Weasley chick to the dance. Why not get revenge?” He outstretches a hand. “Why not join us?”

Harry looks at that hand and wants to laugh at the inanity of it all.

Because Malfoy is wrong. But he is also not wrong. Harry does feel hurt because of last year’s debacle, but also from each year’s accumulated tension. He doesn’t have friends — not really. 

That doesn’t mean it’s necessary or even justified to get revenge. Hell, that doesn’t even mean John has to reciprocate! Harry can’t force anyone’s feelings.

But he also knows how it feels to be abandoned. How it feels to be dismissed, thrown to the side like the vegetables in a dinner a petulant child won’t eat.

He shakes that hand, burning in his eyes and a deep ache in his throat.

“Alright,” he says as if he hasn’t noticed their victorious faces.

As if he doesn’t know they are looking for someone inside the House.

He knows their plan. Well — slightly. It’s obvious. And Harry isn’t stupid. He won’t let them succeed.

***

The only benefit to being a Squad member is the new access to Malfoy’s books.

Dark Arts books. And company. (Awful company, but it’s better than none.)

“My grandfather said that this book was the Dark Lord’s favorite,” Malfoy boasted, lifting up a flesh-bound piece to the air. “It is one of the greatest books on Dark Magic, second only to the Necronomicon.” 

“Fancy.”

_ “Very.  _ Now come look at this copy of  _ Magick Moste Evile—“ _

Harry wants to go home. Home to somewhere. Wherever it is.

***

Harry is _good_ at Dark Arts. He is _scary_ _good._ On his first few tries he figures out the spells and casts them with incredible familiarity. It’s eerie. Even Malfoy and his cronies are unsettled by his sheer talent. 

“Do you have any career plans?” Malfoy asks him once and it’s mortifying enough for a lifetime. Harry tells him to never speak of it again for  _ both  _ their sakes.

One time, on a particularly ominous day,  _ Umbridge  _ comes and congratulates him in front of everyone.

He doesn’t want to relive the memory. It’s traumatizing. He can never look at cats the same way again.

***

But the incident in the Great Hall has consequences.

“Harry,” John says in lieu of a greeting when he strides over.

“John?”

“I just want to ask one thing,” he cuts in. “Are you siding with the Squad?”

_ “Oh,  _ what is this, Potter? Lovers’ spat?”

Malfoy swaggers over to them like a peacock strutting through a meadow. Harry scowls at the sight of him.

“It’s none of your business, Malfoy,” John defends, but gets shushed.

“It’s  _ Inquisitor Malfoy,  _ Michaelis,” the boy corrects. Harry  _ knows  _ he must act like this own purpose.  _ No one  _ can be so annoying naturally. “And it’s  _ Harry.  _ Of course he’s my business.”

“He is one of your members then?” Harry wants to say no, he  _ wants _ to.  _ So much.  _ But he can’t. Not right now. Not while Umbridge has authority.

“Now — _you_ aren’t worthy enough to know confidential information, are you?” Malfoy looks at him. John looks at him. Harry is stuck between choices.

But he can’t give up. Not when he has already decided.

“I suppose,” he drawls, sadness rushing through him at the look John gives him. 

They don’t talk for the rest of dinner. Malfoy has a self-satisfied grin glued to his face.

***

Harry learns of darkness, of power. It’s alluring — but only as alluring as a table surface covered with plates of treacle tart. It’s nice, even wonderful, but not  _ necessary.  _ He feels strange when he thinks about it. He had expected Dark Magic to be like an addiction you can not deny. 

It’s not like that at all. The spells are under his command like eager puppies, ready at a moment’s notice to saturate the air in their sweet, savory aroma. 

He hadn’t been able to, before, but he can sense magic now. It’s ridiculously easy once he gets the basics down. Now, he can’t  _ not  _ see it.

His own magic is more taut now, more shivery. It wavers around the edges like a tense string.

_ What is going on,  _ he wants to ask but he can’t. It doesn’t answer, he has tried.

***

His aura turns  **_black_ ** _. _

The change is so sudden it  _ shakes _ Harry who was in the middle of a spar with Malfoy, making him stumble and fall. The boy comes to his side, asking him if he got him.

“Of  _ course,  _ let’s call the Minister to give you an Order of Merlin, Malfoy!  _ Of course not.  _ Damn it, it’s not always about you!”

He explains what happened. Malfoy explains back in detail.

Harry seems to have become a Dark Wizard now — but the manner in which he  _ Became  _ had been unique. From Malfoy’s accounts, no one’s magic has ever changed so abruptly in history.

“There must be  _ something _ ,” Malfoy grouches, deep in thought. “I just can’t see  _ why!” _

“Brilliant deduction. Maybe you can become an Unspeakable at the rate you’re going.”

“Oh,  _ shut up,  _ you,” he snaps. “You’re in my  _ debt,  _ Potter. Got it? I’m going to send an owl to my father for information.”

Harry shrugs. There’s nothing else he can do, besides useless research.

***

At the end of the year, Umbridge is sacked because she provokes the herd of Centaurs in the Forbidden Forest. 

Harry doesn’t know all the details, but Parkinson is a huge gossip. She’s only appreciative when he asks her for information.

“So seems like Umbridge finally went ‘round the bend,” Zabini scoffs.

“Not as mad as Dumbledore himself though.”

For the record, Dumbledore is back and healthy, jovial as ever. Harry sighs in satisfaction as the school turns back to normal.

But it’s not.

John hasn’t looked over at him for once. Harry feels hurt by the blatant disregard, but he has dug his own grave. It’s understandable.

(It doesn’t stop his heart from breaking, losing a friend irrevocably.)

***

Luna finds him on their last night at Hogwarts.

“One more adventure for us, Harry,” she says, smiling so kindly. Harry doesn’t deserve her, not with the way he has avoided her this year. “One more visit to the portrait.”

And they are back at the corridor of black void, the polished marble floors gleaming in the dim torch lights. Harry feels as though he’s swimming through viscous memories — every step reminds him of wonder, of awe and fearful excitement and a sense of inevitability. Walking towards the room, side by side with Luna, it makes him feel unstoppable.

The door’s as ostentatious as ever. The wood shines with the threads of gold — leaves and stems and brilliant petals of forget-me-nots. The knob turns and they are, for one last time, faced with the visage of a man long dead.

“Good evening,” Harry addresses the Wizard for the first time. It’s an energizing sensation. The Dark Lord gazes upon them with apathetic eyes, weary.

Harry grins. Luna grins with him and sits on the floor. He stays standing.

That night, they have inordinate amounts of fun; Voldemort is exasperated — it’s obvious — but he still does not talk. Harry is a bit crestfallen, but he is still happy.

Later that night, he thinks of the man — the criminal — with fondness, despite himself and his morals. He can’t keep the expressions out of his head. Once, he even thinks his lips look fully kissable — which brings immense shame and utter embarrassment to him.

He tries to think of nothing and buries himself under the blankets.

**_(6th Year)_ **

  
  


The Dursleys won’t accept another year of his stay.

Harry is fine with this. He  _ is.  _ Yet it feels  _ alien  _ to think he’ll leave this suburban hell. This has been his only place of return for nearly two decades now, he can’t imagine finding somewhere else to live…

But no, that’s not completely true. He’s bloody well  _ thankful  _ to be leaving. In some way, it’s liberating — he has never felt so calm, so focused. He is safe. He will be alright. He has enough money to survive, at least. It could have been worse. He could have been destitute and powerless, living on the streets.

This is good.

***

With the OWLs behind him, Harry plans his future. 

Or he tries to.  _ Poorly. _

He has no idea what he could specialize in. He supposes he could apply for the Defense post — no. On second thought, the idea is abhorrent. He can’t deal with the torrent of teenagers on a daily basis, for the rest of his life. That’d be subjecting himself to  _ hell on earth. _

However…

Nothing else makes his interest spike. He doesn’t do much — he studies, he completes assignments, he flies occasionally and he spends time with friends.

He realizes, out of the blue and maybe a bit late, that he’s living a rather pitiful existence. Floating through the days and weeks and months, he has never noticed the purposeless direction his life had taken.

It makes him strangely…  _ bereft. _

_ Empty. _

What is Harry,  _ who  _ is Harry without Hogwarts?

***

Harry knows that his visits to the portrait should be scarce and in-between.

Ha. It’s not. He is practically obsessed with the painting now. Even Luna hasn’t been coming up as often as he does — and for what? To coax the man to talk? Harry doesn’t have ‘Barmy’ as a nickname but he supposed he ought to.

But it’s wonderful. It is. Voldemort is delightfully fun even when he is functionally mute. Harry swears he can hear his derision, his silent insults. It’s incredibly gratifying.

And man, the Dark Lord may not have the moral compass of a saint but he’s handsome and his face is enough to make grown men cry. Harry certainly knows — he has come close to becoming a puddle on the floor for the wizard, legs jelly and eyes staring with fervor. He has never thought that he would crush on a Merlin-damned portrait of all things, but he can’t complain. Neither does Voldemort. 

The strange thing is that he doesn’t seem to mind Harry at all. In fact, Harry has witnessed — witnessed — the Lord’s lips upturning just a bit the last time he came. 

It’s a sign that the Dark Lord likes him!

...That might not be as great as he first assumed. What does that say about Harry’s personality, that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is fond of him?

Nothing flattering, he is sure.

***

The Dark Lord speaks.

“For how long are you willing to go?” he says then Harry drops his inkwell, shattering it on the floor.

In the end it comes up to Harry vanishing the stains and fixing the glass case with Voldemort watching over him like a disappointed parent.

“Such clumsy fingers,” he bemoans as Harry finishes. “I miss giving out corporal punishment.”

“You are rather chatty for a portrait, did you know?” Harry asks, but Voldemort stills.

When he speaks again, his voice shakes, “What… What did you say? Come closer, Harry; let me hear you.”

Was he deaf? Close to deaf? “I said,” Harry starts again, visibly startling the Dark Lord for seemingly no reason at all. “That you’re talking now.”

“Yes.” The man places his palm on the parchment, as if it were a glass window separating them. “That’s right. Tell me, Harry, what do you know of Parselmouths?”

***

It wasn’t in Harry’s plans to get interrogated by the Dark Lord’s portrait on the grounds that  _ he might be the man’s son.  _ **_No._ ** Absolutely no. He  _ knows  _ his parents, he tells him so. There’s no way for Voldemort to be his father.

_ And  _ there’s no way that Harry is a Parselmouth.

“You are speaking it now,” Voldemort points out. “It is part of the reason I do not talk. I am cursed to only speak my ancestors’ noble language.”

“You are  _ cursed?” _

_ “I  _ cursed  _ myself,”  _ he corrected Harry. “I would never be so moronic as to  _ be cursed.  _ I am the  _ greatest  _ Dark Wizard alive.”

“You’re dead now, though,” Harry tells him. “Your reign has ended.”

The Dark Lord doesn’t answer for a while. Harry begins to fear that he has finally crossed a boundary.

Then the man  _ laughs.  _

_ “‘Dead,’”  _ he repeats, as if Harry and Luna hadn’t tried to bring him to tears with hilarious jokes before. “No, my dear. I don’t die. I  _ can not  _ die. I am immortal.”

__

“What a coincidence that your grave has a body in it, then.”

__

Voldemort’s eyes gleam. “Who says it’s the _only_ body I have?”

__

***

__

“Professor Slughorn,” Harry asks one day, after Potions class. “I heard from Malfoy that you taught the Dark Lord, when he attended Hogwarts.”

__

“Oh,  _ no,  _ not this.” The elderly man spins around and points a rude finger at him. “Young man, if you’re here to make me spew  _ secrets  _ I am not available for conversation! Out!”

__

“I apologize, sir. I came off as… a bit crude. That wasn’t what I meant.”

__

“Then what?”

__

“It’s…”

__

Would the Dark Lord’s portrait forgive him if he revealed it?

__

Harry decides to go ahead anyway.

__

“There’s a portrait of him in the castle, somewhere abandoned. He is…  _ brilliant,  _ sir. I just wanted to know more about him.”

__

Slughorn ponders on his words for a while. Harry wishes fervently for him to acquiesce.

__

Then the professor huffs, “I guess there is no harm in telling just a bit, to sate your curiosity, Mr. Potter.” 

And  _ oh,  _ he  _ tells him.  _ Harry has never been so riveted in a tale, a tale of a  _ prodigy  _ rising through overwhelming prejudice and hatred to the  _ top  _ position. It fascinates him —  _ Tom Marvolo Riddle. _

Slytherin Extraordinaire,  _ perfect prefect.  _ Never makes a mistake, never fails with his charming words. Doesn’t even seem to have a single bad day.

Harry knows that appearances can be deceiving.

***

“I heard you were an ideal student,” Harry mentions. “Diligent,  _ oh- _ so-polite. Are you sure you couldn’t have become the Minister?”

“You seem to be underestimating the political affairs of those times,” Voldemort refutes. “Compared to this generation, the Purebloods had had  _ iron _ control of the Wizengamot. I had to settle for a more direct approach.”

“You couldn’t have done anything at all?”

The Dark Lord sneers at him — probably because Harry inadvertently insulted him. Whoops. “A mere Half-Blood could not have. _Lord_ _Voldemort_ could, however.”

Harry nods, unable to keep a smile from blossoming. It’s silly — he can’t  _ still  _ be crushing on the man! That’s weird. Especially considering this new strange  _ mentor-student  _ relationship they have going on.

Too bad his heart has other plans.

*** 

“Michaelis, hey!  _ Michaelis!” _

Harry is grabbed by his shoulder and turned around, jumping back at the sight of the group of Gryffindors.

“Oh,” the nearest one says. “Sorry. Thought you were John.”

“Maybe if I had facial surgery,” Harry snaps but they are already going.

It has been happening more and more.

It’s bloody  _ frustrating.  _ Does no one here know his  _ name? _

_ *** _

At the end of the year, Harry is practically a master of the Dark Arts. None of the Slytherins know why. Malfoy is proud, showing him off as if they were real friends and not convenient acquaintances.

“I have a secret, Harry,” he says, one day. “Come with me. This can’t be spread.”

“Can’t?”

Malfoy smiles ruefully. “My  _ life  _ is on the line.”

They go to a deserted corridor, erecting privacy charms to avoid eavesdroppers.

That day, Harry  _ freaks out. _

_ “Look, I know you aren’t going to believe this,” Malfoy starts his speech. “But this whole state of peace? It’s bullshit. It’s a lie.” _

_ “What are you talking about?” _

_ “The Dark Lord never truly died that night,” Malfoy says, grim. “He has been ruling from the shadows since that Winter Solstice.” _

Harry’s  _ world  _ turns upside down.

  



	2. Phlox: Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Phlox (flower):  
>  "The name is derived from the Greek word 'phlox', meaning flame. In flower language, it stands for 'our souls are united'."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.... 12 months later.

Lord Voldemort is  _ immortal. _

  
  


On that treacherous night of Winter Solstice, underneath the frozen snow and the soil of the orphanage yard, Lord Voldemort feels his skin burn. He becomes numb to the cold and his eyes freeze open. Tears of fear and anticipation are not enough to keep them unfrosted.

Lord Voldemort is immortal. Lord Voldemort has never died before. 

He is dying. He will be back --  _ but he has never  _ **_died_ ** _ before. _

The snow is not opaque but it is not transparent. The light filters through a thick layer of snow. When his senses start to leave him, he knows that the tunnel, the  _ light _ at the end of it is nothing but the illusion of his mind -- shutting down, the end.

_ The end.  _ Until next time.

Panic doesn’t reach him under the deluge of serene chemicals. And during these small, terrifying moments; Lord Voldemort sees the ethereal light--

_ It’s beautiful. _

_ Even more beautiful is that  _ **_he will be back._ **

***

_ His body is a weak, pathetic vessel from this perspective. Voldemort can observe himself from where he is.  _ **_(Where is he?)_ **

_ He floats, floats, floats. The sky is either up or down -- or is it right or left? _

_ A tether locks onto him. The breath leaves his soul. He is immediately alarmingly aware of his spirit.  _

_ His body is still within sight. It’s horrifying to see, frightening to know it’s  _ **_him_ ** _. _

_ The tether pulls. He resists. Being here, witnessing his body lying still and empty is heart-wrenching. He doesn’t want to leave.  _

_ The tether pulls. He cries out in sorrow. The sky calls from left and right and up and down, but the tether pulls harder. He is buoyed back. _

Lord Voldemort materializes back in his mansion, and he has never sobbed so much in his life.

***

The second prophecy awakens a sense of precaution in Lord Voldemort. He has a homunculus ready before leaving for his task. He makes use of it and spells it to pull his stray souls in. It’s awfully useful -- he has effectively turned his resurrection into a momentary ritual.

Once the homunculus is filled, it is easy to order his followers to prepare for the actual magic, the magic of creating a  _ true _ body.

Lord Voldemort is thorough. He does not make a single mistake.

He has not been defeated yet. 

Yet, is it wise to return to war so quickly? He is exhausted, made weary by the massive amounts of magic he has wasted, the game of endurance ticking at his wounds. He finds that it is not so easy to jump back from such a recovery of his main soul piece.

So Lord Voldemort pauses.

_ The war is over, _ the Light rejoices. Lord Voldemort schemes. 

The war is  _ not  _ over. Not yet.

***

A decade is a long time to spend idle. Lord Voldemort sends his loyal followers on secret missions -- infiltration of the Ministry, espionage, discrete assassinations; anything that may prove beneficial to their cause.

It makes him tired.  _ So tired.  _ Problems and worries are relentless, barely stopping since the celebrations of the  _ Boy-Who-Lived. _

Some of the rumors of the boy’s survival grate on his ears. Possessed by Merlin’s soul from the Beyond, performed an ancient rite of power, survived the Killing Curse -- pray tell,  _ do _ they really expect a one-year-old to know of such rites, such power? Not even Merlin reincarnated would have so much control over magic. This is an  _ atrocity. _

  
  


But Voldemort, even though he is a Dark Lord of unimaginable power, even though he has absolutely everything within reach… He gets _ bored.  _

He picks up various hobbies. Purebloods have a set of activities that they call the  _ wizardly arts, _ which seem to be as frivolous as they are  _ (He takes care not to let his people see, lest they gain a sense of superiority over him.) _ Musical instruments, flower arrangement, rune-combining, and several more magical endeavours -- to no avail. Fascination slips from him like oil on water.

The piano is insultingly difficult. He had assumed that as with everything, he would have mastered this post-haste, but it turns out that he does not have the creativity for music. His long, elegant fingers become halting sticks of flesh in proximity to the keys. In the end, he gives up out of a frustration with himself and his lacking talent in music, never to touch an instrument again. The grand piano is relocated to the attic.

Flower arrangement is one of the activities that bore him until he wishes for death. He had presumed that by Narcissa’s enthusiasm for them, he would enjoy the routine of it at least— but that had been a mistake. The flowers are lackluster, their beauty dim once the novelty has worn off. Lord Voldemort

Runes are mind-numbingly easy — he has mastered the art of sigils and seals since the early days of his adolescence. What is pleasure if not the challenge? Nothing keeps his interest, sparks his mind into a frenzy.

***

Narcissa, of all his followers, gifts him an animal.

(It’s a cat. It’s horrible.)

“I noticed that you have been quite…” She tries to find the word, unable to put a name to it that would not offend him. “Ah. You seemed to be in need of a distraction, my Lord.”

“And you believe you will be the one to break through my humdrum?”

“I… would not be so impertinent as to  _ believe  _ that, no. But there is no harm in trying my best, as a host, to make sure you live in comfort.”

“So you brought me this small creature,” Voldemort remarks as he picks the cat by its scruff, lifting it to eye-level. “And if I decide I do not want it?”

“Then it will be gone.”

Lord Voldemort does not need a  _ pet,  _ as opposed to mortals. He is rather self-sufficient and enjoys his own company. There is no need for the presence of a companion.

Yet, none of his justifications matter. He brings it close, as if embracing it, and the cat promptly curls into a better shape to fit his arms. 

It is surprisingly heavy. And warm. The fur of its coat is soft and smooth. It has a fetching black colour and eyes gleaming in the yellow torchlights. 

It looks at his face, then blinks -- slowly, carefully -- and afterwards settles back and begins purring.

“She seems to like you, my Lord,” Narcissa says. He nods in affirmation, feeling strange.

“I will house her. She will stay in my bedroom. If you see her wandering by herself, you are to bring her back.”

“...If I may be so bold, my Lord?”

He tells her to go on.

“Cats are rather independent animals. They are overly energetic when confined. By this pattern of behaviour, would she not attempt to escape as soon as the opportunity arose, or spend her days tearing the furniture apart? That seems… imprudent to me.”

“You want me to let her roam the grounds free,” he translates, apparently guessing correctly since she flinches at his words. “I suppose her willing loyalty would be a perk. Very well. If you see her alone and out of my room, let her be. Does that satisfy you?”

_ “Very,”  _ Narcissa confirms as she breathes a sigh of relief. “I apologize, my Lord. I did not know how well this would be received. Thank you for not being cruel to her.”

“Is she a beloved pet of yours, Narcissa?”

She nods. “A Kneazle hybrid, I believe, very distantly. She was the only pet allowed in the Black residence -- my mother loathed animals -- and I brought her with me after I married Lucius.”

“Yes, your marriage,” Voldemort remembers, leaning back and caressing the cat’s back. “And how is dear Draco? I hear that he is a healthy toddler.”

“He  _ is.  _ It was disappointing to learn that I could never have a child again, but I’ve made my peace. Draco is precious to me.”

_ Precious _ . The simple word is enough to bring mixed feelings. He waves the sensation away and brings the conversation back to work and missions. 

***

The cat is the  _ devil. _

It hates him, he knows. When he tries to coax her to go to sleep, she leaps away and starts  _ racing  _ through the corridors at night. As much as he promised one of his favored followers, he finds it hard not to cast a  _ Cruciatus  _ on the cat.

“You have not named her, my Lord?” Narcissa questions with astonishment. “I thought you would have liked to grant her one.”

“Too much of a waste of time. Do you not already have a name for her?”

“Of course! My elder sister liked to call her  _ Marguerite,  _ isn’t it such an elegant name?”

More of a  _ mouthful  _ than elegant, in his opinion. He considers the little demon sleeping on his lap with unease. Disregarding Narcissa’s hopeful face, “Faust.”

“Excuse me?”

“Her name will be  _ Faust.” _

Narcissa’s jaw hangs open. Voldemort enjoys her bewilderment very much. “…Whatever you wish, my Lord.”

“Of course. She is mine now, after all.”

Narcissa’s heartbroken face when she leaves the hall is  _ hilarious. _

He turns back to the cat.

“And  _ you,  _ Faust?” he mutters to himself, petting her neck. “Do you still wish to make my life hell?”

She probably still does.

Lord Voldemort sighs.

***

When he comes across Nagini, it is with a feeling of wariness. He can _ not _ let her eat Faust. Absolutely not. If that devil cat dies before Voldemort decides so, he would… bring her back to life and kill her himself. Yes.

Nagini is amazingly accommodating, however. (Or is  _ Faust  _ very accomodating? A strange and unnerving distinction.) She doesn’t even dare go near Faust. The cat seems quite pleased. Voldemort decides that she looks delightfully  _ haughty  _ and makes the House Elves feed her more salmon, as a reward. As a result, Nagini demands more mice and he summons more for her. Escalating, he ends up mediating between a cat and a gigantic snake in an effort to keep the tenuous peace.

He has been far too idle if he’s worrying about this, and it’s disgusting how low he’s fallen.

***

John Michaelis will be going to Hogwarts this year.

Therefore, it is time for Lord Voldemort to start planning once more. He must leave behind the life of leisure, once again commanding the army of darkness and wresting control from the Ministry for the last time. Permanently.

...Or, perhaps, he  _ will _ once he gets Faust to calm down. The demon cat is so very petulant when she wakes up at noon. He resigns himself to delaying correspondence until his pet is fed and watered.

_ “Where are my mice, Master?”  _ Nagini hisses as she slips through the doorway.  _ “I am hungry! Feed me or I will eat the white man!” _

Voldemort has a feeling that if Faust and he could talk the same way Nagini and he could, conversations wouldn’t be much different. 

He  _ does  _ tell Nagini that Lucius Malfoy is off-limits, however.

***

He doesn’t know when he decides to buy him.

His fur is a furious red. It reminds Voldemort of his enemies’ blood and their pain-filled screams. He becomes very fond of this odd cat in… five to seven seconds. That is quite unusual. It intrigues him. So Lord Voldemort houses another Merlin-forsaken cat.

On the bright side, he names him  _ Douleur.  _ He has always been fond of French. Granted, naming his pet after  _ pain  _ is not so original -- but he is digressing.

So, he has bought a new cat. He is not certain whether this shows that he is a bit… _ not-quite-there  _ in the head -- no. Lord Voldemort does not make mistakes, he does not show weakness. He  _ has  _ no weakness. None of his followers have caught on to the fact that the cat belongs to him. There’s no cause for alarm.

Lord Voldemort is allowed to have pets. As  _ many  _ as he wants. His followers have no say in his decisions.

**_(1th Year)_ **

Quirinus Quirrel. Dark Arts enthusiast. Loyal follower. 

Undercover agent.  _ Perfect for the job. _

Quirinus has the uncanny ability to stutter on command — which is quite difficult to reproduce, and quite annoying once produced at all, as Voldemort knows well. The man is also a natural actor — not on  _ his  _ level but close enough — so there is no doubt as to who he will be sending to Hogwarts.

_ The Philosopher’s Stone.  _ Dumbledore has planned another scheme of his, just like his damned prophecy. The Headmaster wishes to lure him into his trap.

_ There’s no escape from one’s true self,  _ Voldemort supposes.  _ For he had always been a manipulator at heart.  _

But Lord Voldemort knows his plan. He will not bite the bait.

He will  _ send someone  _ to bite the bait. Quirinus will steal the Stone and Lord Voldemort will slip through the old coot’s fingers, intangible as a ghost.

***

_ Quirinus. The  _ **_damned,_ ** _ utter moron. _

The man has failed what a basic wizard could have achieved — it doesn’t flatter him that he was bested by three first-year students. If Voldemort hadn’t been wallowing in his disappointment, he would have been torturing Quirinus with  _ insensate rage. _

As it stands, Quirinus was apprehended.  _ Fortunately,  _ his follower had not been so stupid as to leak secrets; Quirinus had killed himself before the interrogation could start. Lord Voldemort feels some of his anger retreat.

Well, back to war efforts. Yet another year of subtle power--plays.

***

Faust. Douleur. Lacrima. Fourmi. Moriarty. Homicide. __

And now,  _ Camilla _ . In his defense,  _ seven  _ sounded better than two. It is certainly…  _ harder  _ to live in one room with seven felines. He lets them out often now.

His followers have caught on to the pets running around. To his satisfaction, none of them have realized that they belong not to Narcissa, but to  _ him.  _ Voldemort knows that if he called in a meeting and brought the cats with him, no one would dare utter a whisper in protest.

However, it is not merely for the sake of his followers that he is withholding this information. He is  _ concerned  _ about his image. Throughout his Hogwarts years, he has never once pet a cat. He has never shown affection for any sort of animal in his youth — those of his followers who grew up with the stories of him would not react appropriately to him suddenly owning seven pets. Of course, it is not a matter of  _ caring  _ for their opinion. It is more of a matter of  _ securing their support.  _ If they became less convinced of his power — however shallow it is to count  _ pets  _ in that equation — they could either pull their support back  _ (which he would punish) _ or they would lose a fraction of their loyalty to him. Voldemort admits that he is a greedy man, and that when he wants something, he wants either  _ all  _ of it or  _ none  _ of it.

And though he cannot exactly interact with his animal companions in front of his followers, the system in place works just as well. Lord Voldemort does not wish it to cease solely for the sake of his own further comfort. There are some pleasures of life one can choose not to partake in.

Such as announcing his ownership of the little demons.

**_(2nd Year)_ **

Voldemort finds them torturing his cat.

He finds them  _ torturing  _ his cat. Who has recruited these senseless heaps of flesh, thirsting only for the pleasure of blood and brutality? He is  _ sick _ of these ingrates in his service.

_ "Avery,"  _ he hisses, deceptively quiet. "What do you  _ think  _ you are doing?"

"My -- My Lord!" The man falls before his feet, showing easy deference. "I was -- I had been on the verge of--"

"Killing my  _ pet,"  _ he spits out. He takes immense satisfaction in the white pallor of the man's skin. "I am aware. The question is… Were  _ you _ aware of what you were about to commit?"

"My…"

Avery's voice comes out in wheezes now, eyes wide with fright, reeking of desperation. "My Lord!" As expected, he says nothing else that justifies his unjustifiable action. It is no wonder, Avery hardly has the brain cell to come up with a suitable excuse.

"...You punished something of mine," he says. "Little Faust did nothing to you, and you gave her  _ pain  _ for it."

"Please, my Lord! Have mercy!"

"I am a fair leader, Avery," he tells him. He starts circling the kneeling man, savouring the stench of his horror. "I will not kill you."

Avery relaxes with that admission, drawing relief from the fact.

_ That is a mistake. _

"I will make you  _ wish  _ I did."

He slashes with his wand and Avery howls at the agony rushing through him, the fire burning him inside out. Voldemort does not show mercy. He rips and he cuts and he  _ tears,  _ until barely anything intact remains.

"You will remember," he tells the sobbing man. "You will never forget the pain you put her through, Avery. _You will live an eternity with it."_

He slashes his wand again, sending his wretched follower through boundless agony with yet another curse.

And through it all, he spies with his eye the small cat watching from the sidelines, as content as she was when she got her brunch cream.

It makes him smile, fond of her nature. He leaves Avery and takes her into his arms, the soft fur tickling the underneath of his chin.

"Troublesome pet," he mutters, absolutely resigned. "You are detrimental to me. Whatever shall I do with you?"

Faust looks up at him, slowly -- then blinks, ever so quietly. Then comes out a lovely sound, accompanied by soothing purring.

_ Ah _ , the things he does.

***

No one dares cross the cats anymore. When one passes by, he has personally seen a few of his followers offer them treats with conspiratorial faces, no doubt seeking to gain his approval through the felines.

How idiotic. 

  
  


**_(3rd Year)_ **

  
  


His cats have _ bred. _

Just the mere thought is enough to send revolted shivers down his spine, but he manages to handle it.

He had been petting Camilla one evening in front of the fireplace, contemplating the plans of the takeover of the Ministry when his hand found something out of the ordinary.

He touches her belly again, wondering if he perhaps fed her too much. He couldn't have. He always gives her exactly the same amount every day -- Camilla is precise like that, a creature of habit compared to the chaos Faust is.

A thought occurs to him and he seethes, a deep frown pulling at his lips. He takes out his wand and performs a general diagnostic--

She's  _ pregnant. _

Camilla is carrying  _ kittens. Kittens _ , how?

"Which one did you mate with?" he asks aloud, bemused and unnerved. "What have you been doing behind my back, behind closed doors? I haven't bought you to do --  _ that." _

Camilla, the insufferable devil she is, meows with an unimpressed look in her eyes and faces the fire once more, demanding more petting.

_ Insufferable,  _ Voldemort repeats inwardly, stroking her back.  _ Little demon. Little demon with baby demons. _

***

At the end of the year, it is quite obvious that the purchase of his many pets had been a catastrophic mistake. Each female is hobbling around with swollen bellies and even shriller yowls. Each male is hissing and fighting to the death.

The final straw is when he determines the cause of Faust's sudden illness, an ill-timed discovery of her pregnancy that leaves him seething and frustrated. If those no-good males had not had such unhealthy interest in mating, perhaps his darling Faust would not have been so miserable now. This conclusion left only one option.

Neutering.

He can almost imagine the terror he's about to unleash on those beasts.

***

It takes no fewer than three  _ Imperio _ s _ ,  _ seven surgical cutting curses (one of them misfired,) and humongous amounts of healing magic followed by pain-relievers.

It takes great amounts of sweat, even more blood, and Lord Voldemort's deafened eardrums. He considers his sacrifice necessary, however, for the relief of a stable population and the peace of knowing that there will be no more _unfortunate_ _accidents_. And if the price of his future comfort was this, _so be it._

"Should we expect kittens, my Lord?" Lucius Malfoy asks him, hesitantly.

Lord Voldemort sighs. Malfoy apparently takes that as confirmation.

"I will prepare for their birth."

"See to it that you do."

***

The new kittens are born one after the other. There are a total of eight newborn felines, named  _ Belle, Lucifer, Dante, Saoirse, Maria, Fiona, Rose,  _ and  _ Phlox.  _ A rather unconventional and inconsistent way to name them, but the Dark Lord is pleased with each one. Maybe the unforeseen pregnancies had not been a waste.

As he hears Faust race through the halls once again, he thinks to himself that maybe Faust's pregnancy had been fortunate, what with it preventing any late-night chaos.

"My Lord?" Narcissa asks.

"Speak your mind."

"Thank you. I was wondering if you intended to do anything about Michaelis."

A frown marrs his face. "That boy."

"We have to start somewhere."

"Yes," he tells her. "You are right, Narcissa. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I know how invested you are in our mission. I shall reward your hard work soon."

When she bows to him, there is only a satisfied upturn of her lips, a breeze heralding unexpected dangers. Lord Voldemort knows her, has been privy to the deepest corners of her mind. He knows that Narcissa is a cold--blooded entertainer with a smorgasbord of skills in her hands, each of them mastered with deadly precision and minute calculation. For this reason alone, Voldemort knows that she is one of his favourites, and will always remain so.

"How you  _ please _ me," he tells her for once, indulgent. Narcissa, as usual, does not derive pleasure from his praise. It amuses him how unlike her sister she is. "I will even make sure dear Draco has a bright future, so that you can let your worries dissipate. Lord Voldemort returns favours, especially to his closest ones."

"You honour me, my Lord," she answers, nodding her contentment. "I will aspire to serve you with utmost loyalty, until I draw my last breath."

He brings his hands underneath his chin, crossing fingers and resting the weight of his head on his knuckles. "Yes, I believe you will."

  
  


**_(4th Year)_ **

  
  


The year continues. John Michaelis starts his fourth year at Hogwarts. Simultaneously, Voldemort decides that he can no longer sit still.

He is  _ itching  _ to move. It is time for field work.

***

"A rundown of our mission, Lestrange," Lord Voldemort demands, licking his lips in anticipation. He absentmindedly notes that they are dry. "For the rookie, you see."

"I'd never dare think you an amateur, my Lord," the man denies. It is rather…  _ cute,  _ how he fears disrespecting him -- yet his admiration twists together with the image of him he has.

He has to sigh at how utterly  _ boring  _ his followers have become. One can't even joke with them anymore.

"I will lead you to the Prophecy Room, my Lord," Lestrange summarizes. "It is imperative that you stand as close as you can to me. I mean no disrespect, but if we are discovered, my cover will shatter."

"And thus, would begin an indefinite stay at the dreary cells of Azkaban." Voldemort waves it away. "I am aware."

He throws his invisibility illusion on himself, strong enough to fool the strongest reversal spells, but he doesn't inform Lestrange. It would take all the fun out of it.

Together, they enter the phone booth and descend towards the Ministry atrium.

_ "Purpose of visit?" _

"I wanted to check the Prophecy Room," Lestrange tells it. "Had a bad feeling about it."

The booth produces a card for him, reading,  _ 'Rodolphus Lestrange, Unspeakable, Checking For Trouble'. _

_ "Purpose of Visit?"  _ it asks again, confusing them both -- but Voldemort realizes the reason and chortles at it.

"Here to cause trouble," he says despite Lestrange's warning look, and gets his own card.

_ Lord Voldemort, Dark Lord, Looking For Trouble _

"My Lord--"

"Oh,  _ lighten up.  _ Do they even check the lift registry anymore?"

_ "Occasionally,"  _ his servant stresses. "On a different note, we have arrived."

The lift stops with a smooth motion, and they enter the atrium. A young intern asks for his wand, and Lestrange abides by the rules as usual. In the meantime, Voldemort floats over the wand check, magic light and airy under him.

"Strange," he hears the intern mumble. "It says there was one more there with you. Can the lift actually malfunction?"

"How would I know?" Lestrange rebuffs, yet he can see the panic hidden in him. "I didn't see anyone. If you have pressing concerns, call customer support. I have places to be."

"S-Sorry, Sir."

They move on to the other, horizontal lift. They are alone in the small cubicle, so Voldemort allows himself a mischievous smile.

"How exciting," he mutters under his breath. "I haven't had so much fun in ages."

_ "My Lord." _

He rolls his eyes. "Ruin my day, won’t you."

***

The path to the Prophecy Room is laden with shallow magical illusions, flimsy to the Dark Lord's potent magic. To his disappointment, Lestrange is more than capable of disabling them, and they enter the room with little to no trouble.

"Here we are," Lestrange speaks at last. "We can talk now, my Lord. No one else is in right now."

"How do you know?" he asks, but his eyes stray to the chart on the wall "Ah. I see now. I will be looking for the prophecy, feel free to do as you wish."

"Thank you, my Lord."

With Lestrange dismissed, Voldemort takes his time to take in the room. It is spacious, ceilings high, and lit solely by the silver lights of the orbs. He skims through a variety of shelves before drawing his wand, and muttering ' _ Take me to which is mine.' _

The spell is not of Latin origin, but of a sort that is born of the heart. For this to work, he has to have a connection to form, a connection to pursue. Such is the form of these magics.

His wand spits a silver mist, and the clouds form an arrow overhead, pointing to the end of the corridor. Lord Voldemort follows the path between the two shelves, soft gleams lighting his face. His illusion has fallen by his command.

Years ago, he had noticed that a portion of the prophecy had been lost to him in the throes of his death, struggling to keep as much of his memories as he could through meditation techniques. It seemed that the newest prophecy had been in his list of  _ low--priority _ recollections. Now, he wished to remember it again, to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything crucial.

The mist leads him to the prophecy. A shelf tucked away into the corner hides what he seeks. He approaches, and observes the mist. It twists and descends onto one particular orb, wrapping it in its turbulent magic. The mist thickens, then sparkles -- it sinks into the orb, and turns it black and cloudy.

"Hello, there," he grins, picking it up. "What do we have here?"

He shakes it as one would shake a snowball glass, and it glimmers again, burying the room in blinding light.

When he opens his eyes, it is to another realm. He is in a white vastness stained in ink -- green splatters, drips of red, black lines…

The lines snake under his feet, and his eyes follow them.

_ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,  _ a breath whispers into his ear. He turns around, but he is alone in the whiteness.

_ Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… _

The ink splatters coalesce, and whirlwind into a mix of mishmashed letters. The letters separate as the voice utters the prophecy into him, etches its memory deep inside his mind.  _ And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. _

The words become the prophecy then, like the lyrics of a song sung long before.  _ And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… _

_ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord… _

_ Will be born as the seventh month dies… _

"My Lord!"

Lord Voldemort is thrown out of the memory by the panicked voice of his follower.

"We have been found!" Lestrange shouts. "They know!"

So soon?

He had never had faith in the Ministry, but perhaps even  _ they  _ have some strokes of luck. Voldemort picks up the prophecy --  _ the false, already known prophecy; it cannot still persist, how?  _ \-- and makes them invisible just as the Aurors burst into the room.

"Surrender!" they holler, but Voldemort ignores them, instead working on gathering his magic.

"My Lord?" 

"Quiet. Hold onto me."

He does. Voldemort pushes his magic beneath the both of them, holding it near breaking point. The power is vibrating in crackling electricity.

He lets go, pushing everything he has towards the ceiling. The magic explosion propels them above, breaking through the layers and the ground. They land near the phone booth, a sizzling hole in the pavement near them. 

They had put a hole through the Ministry.

"I--" Lestrange pauses. "Did we just--"

"I suppose that was enough adventure for today." Lord Voldemort sighs. "How dull. You must remind me to take appropriate measures next time, Rodolphus."

***

He goes back to his daily life for some time. Meanwhile, he gets reports from his other followers in the Ministry, informing him of a Triwizard Tournament to be hosted at Hogwarts. He considers whether to send one of his men, but ultimately decides against it. He has no plan he can tailor for a scheme of that magnitude, at least not  _ yet,  _ and he does not wish to waste his followers for nothing.

Life is… utterly  _ boring.  _ His brief stint with the infiltration of the Ministry had been interesting, but not satisfactory.

He had never expected that he would miss  _ hardships. _

***

The Triwizard Tournament continues without much incident, but Lord Voldemort allows himself a moment of indulgence to have a…  _ vacation. _

A brief, completely temporary vacation, but one nonetheless. What could be the harm? It is not as though anyone ever requires his presence -- it's not a time of war anymore. At least, not yet.

He packs some of his belongings -- so few that he hardly needs an expansion charm for his bag -- and visits Narcissa's rooms.

"My Lord?" She is still under the haze of sleep, unable to fully use her cognitive functions. Voldemort knows such weaknesses and forgives her for it. "I -- how may I serve?"

"No need to worry, dear Narcissa," he reassures her. "I need you to look after my… little hellions. I will be going on… on  _ vacation _ , I suppose."

_ "Vacation?"  _ she repeats, incredulous yet respectful. "I apologize for my rudeness, My Lord, but is that  _ wise? _ So close to the breaking point as we are?”

"I understand your concerns, but rest assured that they are unnecessary." If he stays in this Merlin-forsaken manor any longer, he is liable to explode it.

She sighs, scratching her cheek. "Very well. Let me alert Lucius, my Lord, and I am certain we can arrange something. Are you leaving right this second or will you stay for breakfast?"

He shakes his head. "I couldn't. It is still hours before dawn. You must rest -- Faust, especially, is a handful. And before breakfast, all of them will need feeding, though most might not eat it immediately--"

"My Lord," she interrupts him, not unkindly. "They're in safe hands. I am aware of their daily schedule. You need not worry about anything — take a break and rest, as you have told me to. You need it sorely."

He nods once and takes a step back. She smiles and closes the door, leaving him alone in the silent corridor.

Where to, now? The world is open and free, and there aren’t many places that a wizard cannot get into…

***

He roams the vast, empty moors in Anatolia, no traces of civilization to be seen from one side of the horizon to the other. When he finally has his fill of solitude, he visits forests. He swims in clear rivers and jumps from waterfall tops. The sun is warm and welcoming, and the few townsfolk he comes across are friendly, despite him being a stranger in a strange land. He doesn't know the language, but his gestures are enough to tell his intentions.

When free to do as he wishes, boredom has stopped being boredom. It is a mere state of being now, leading him to curious little adventures -- which are frankly not dangerous at all -- and quaint experiences. 

Once he’s fed up with the warmth and the sunshine, he decides to brave the cold and travels to the freezing tundras, where snow goes as far as the horizon and not an animal can be seen out and about.

He doesn’t see anyone for a long while. The snow is silver and soft, and the charms he weaves make it so the cold can never touch him. He spends days and days and  _ days _ sitting in silence, stewing in himself and the touch of his soul, and for a brief time, he thinks that he’s  _ drowning _ with hopelessness.

It passes, as everything does. He doesn't feel like he will burst anymore.

When he has his fill of loneliness, Lord Voldemort returns home to his cats and Nagini.

  
  


**_(5th Year)_ **

  
  


In his absence, not much has changed. 

Lucius has become an even more prominent member of the Board of Governors, which only benefits him. Narcissa has hosted a total of two balls in the empty manor, though he had expected there to be more. Their dear son had come back home -- though he is situated far,  _ far  _ away from Voldemort’s rooms. There is truly no limit to a parent’s protectiveness. What do they think he is going to  _ do  _ to the boy,  _ eat him? _

When he is back, he immediately rushes to his feline companions, worried sick that they might have been upset by his disappearance. To his utmost  _ happiness  _ \-- which is odd -- they nearly claw his robes off in their desperation to get to him. The first night he sleeps in his own bed in a long time, he is buried under a heap of cats with Nagini on top. The purring and stray hisses are soothing, lulling him to the best sleep he has had in years.

The Boy Who Lived is still living and still an unknown piece, yet he doesn’t even care. Lord Voldemort has never seen him in person, nor has he ever interacted with him in any way. It is hard to fear a boy, even one who is supposed to be his end.

He resolves to get Severus to write some  _ very  _ specific reports.

***

Apparently, there is a new defense professor at Hogwarts. The existence of a new professor is nothing to raise eyebrows at.  _ Even less impressive  _ is that the teacher is rubbish at what she does, being a Ministry official instead of someone with the necessary credentials. 

No, the truly shocking fact is that the new instructor seems to be  _ torturing  _ the students.

"I am familiar with corporal punishment," Lord Voldemort tells Severus. "We received it often in the Muggle world and occasionally at Hogwarts during detentions -- not  _ me _ , of course. I never had detentions." He pauses and realizes that he has overshared, flushing in embarrassment. "But I am digressing. The question is:  _ How  _ is this mere  _ corporal punishment  _ and not outright torture? Is the Ministry  _ that _ blind?”

"She has been abusing her power as Fudge’s closest confidante. Her detentions include writing lines, using a quill that draws blood from the writer and scars the writing into their skin. Umbridge's main weapon is, however, her power within the Ministry and over Hogwarts as the new  _ Inspector _ . _ " _

"An  _ Inspector?  _ I have never heard someone  _ inspecting  _ Hogwarts."

"It is a made--up position."

The Lord scoffs in disgust. "Ridiculous. Severus,  _ deal with this woman.  _ I won't have her sullying wizards in this way. Corporal punishment only works if it has a purpose, and I do not condone propaganda spread in this way."

"Is there a method you wish for me to use?"

Lord Voldemort stills and thinks.

A vicious grin blossoms on his face.

"Treat her with her worst nightmares. Give Miss Umbridge her just desserts for hurting the students."

Severus bows, lips turned up. "It would be my pleasure, my Lord."

***

At the end of the year, Voldemort receives a black owl with a missive attached to its leg.

The letter is from Severus.

_ Ms Umbridge has received penance for her sins,  _ he reports.  _ She was found in the Forbidden Forest, insulting the Centaur herd and getting trampled under their hooves in the process. She is getting quite the backlash from Beast-lovers from all over the world, not to mention Creature activists. It is not yet certain whether she will survive the trampling, let alone the criticisms. _

Voldemort laughs loudly, petting Faust who lies on his lap purring. "Good old Severus, he knows exactly the type of punishment I relish."

He pauses and reconsiders his words, grimacing. "That sounds wrong. I ought to mind my words better."

  
  


**_(6th Year)_ **

  
  


The new school year starts normally, though Lord Voldemort wishes it hadn't. The monotony seems even more monotonous these days, and he often feels like ripping his hair out in frustration.

_ However,  _ he shakes off some of that stress through pet-sitting and going outside, wandering the grounds. It reminds him of his early Hogwarts days in a way. The awe was diminishing. 

***

_ "No,  _ Lucifer," Voldemort scolds. "You can't break the vase Narcissa received from the Minister's wife. That's her property. We  _ do not  _ break others' property. It’s  _ rude _ to repair broken china. Yes— it is completely ridiculous but wizards don’t know logic."

The white cat stares at him in the eyes, gaze wide and innocent. Voldemort stares right back at him and  _ doesn't believe _ that innocence, not even for a second.

Lucifer puts his paw on the frail vase and Voldemort puts down his foot, quite soundly. 

_ "No."  _

The cat tenses up.

"Lucifer,  _ no-" _

Lucifer pushes the vase down and lets it shatter on the floor.

_ "Damn it,  _ Lucifer."

***

He repairs the vase with magic. What Narcissa doesn’t know won’t hurt her. The cat licks his paw with a smug air about him.

_ Little prick,  _ Voldemort thinks and snorts.

***

Sixth year goes on splendidly, though Lord Voldemort feels as though he ought to be doing something about the  _ Boy Who Lived  _ matter _. _ It has been many months since he last spared a thought about the boy— not a boy anymore. From the reports, he seems to be a careless young man of Gryffindor, spending his days playing around with his friends and studying for his exams. Lord Voldemort doesn’t believe that he is a threat, not anytime soon.

That does  _ not _ mean that his followers are comfortable with the status quo, however. There is an odd tension to the political climate, one that is about to burst. The Minister is all but declaring war on Albus Dumbledore, unaware of how nonsensical that is to the masses and his true enemies. The goblins are vying for their right to wands once more, and the werewolves of the south are protesting for equal rights. Voldemort knows of their wants and he takes advantage of them— but his followers are combat--focused, taking enjoyment in battle and glory. They will not— _ cannot _ —bear petty politics. Lord Voldemort is as aware of this as they are.

“We must take over the Ministry as soon as possible,” he suggests to Lucius one evening, drinking Bob Ogden’s finest mead in sparkling glasses. “Minister Fudge is weak. He has support from neither the public nor from Dumbledore. If we push our campaign forward…”

“I understand, my Lord,” Lucius says. “But I do not believe the lower tier does.”

It is a careful implication. The lower tier is the outermost layer of Death Eaters, those who have joined their cause only for the benefit of bloodshed. Lord Voldemort is careful not to admit animals like those into his circles, lest they pervert their noble aspirations for something as base as  _ murder. _

He must provide entertainment for those beasts, no matter how much it disgusts him to bend to their whims.

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” he asks himself, eyes widening with an idea.

Why not tie loose ends, finish what he started all those years ago?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha please don't kill me you know i'm slow to update and have many many wips

**Author's Note:**

> Ahem hi Kat I hope you liked it I have been slaving non-stop for this thing for two days ;D
> 
> I have never written so much in so little time 👍🏻
> 
> (EDIT 2: Holy shit it's been a year. Woah. So much time. I feel like I'm on a deadline. Okay fellas I've decided I'm not gonna drag this out much longer, so you can probably expect a new chapter soon, and the chapter count increased +1 because it's STILL not finished)  
> (*goes and cries*)


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